


ask the line to hold, keep it all aloft

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: there will be music despite everything (sw/mcu au) [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Written Before Thor: Ragnarok Came Out, ahsoka/darcy also implied, past Anakin/Thor and implied past almost-Anakin/Obi-wan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24001975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: “They aren’t common anymore, certainly, but in the right circles they’re highly prized.”“You mean in the hipster circles,” says Darcy.“Not exclusively,” says Obi-wan.“Says the hipster with his own café that sells kale shakes,” says Darcy.or: Obi-wan Kenobi makes new friends and sees old ones, sells a latte, and visits New York.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Series: there will be music despite everything (sw/mcu au) [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/595543
Comments: 34
Kudos: 235





	ask the line to hold, keep it all aloft

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "Not A Question" by Brittany Cavallaro.
> 
> happy Star Wars Day! this is set, chronologically, sometime before AOU. maybe expect another chapter? probably? idk. I started writing this in maybe around 2016/17, hopefully it doesn't take another four years to upload another installment.

Darcy Lewis steps through the café’s door and says, “Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

Obi-wan sighs, sets his rag aside, and says, “Good morning to you too, Darcy. I’m guessing you’re here for the usual.”

Darcy beams at him, a sunny kind of smile, and takes her beanie off, hanging it on the coat rack. “Yep,” she says.

“Well, have a seat,” says Obi-wan, waving to the café’s empty chairs. Darcy’s his first customer of the day, the usual crowd of hipsters and students don’t tend to show up until ten in the morning, thereabouts. “I’m surprised you decided to come this early.”

“What can I say, I love your pastries,” says Darcy, taking one of the cozier seats near the window. “Also, Doc took off to teach some of his friend’s classes. Something about owing the guy like fifty favors.”

Obi-wan feels something in his chest unclench, at the confirmation that yes, Anakin’s all right and mostly out of trouble. Mostly, anyway, from what scattered tales Anakin has told him, academia is a much less boring field than he expected it to be. “That’s good news,” he says. “I expected him to come in after you, the two of you come in together so often.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but it wasn’t like I was gonna give up my week of sightseeing,” says Darcy, with a shrug. She’s surprisingly calm, though Obi-wan supposes that after living through the Greenwich Incident, it’d be rather difficult to faze someone. “He did say to tell you that if you want he could fly over and take a look at all your stuff.”

She pauses then, and looks around the café, gaze landing on the gramophone in the corner, playing one of Obi-wan’s beloved records. She looks back at him and says, “But honestly, I don’t think even he knows how to fix up a gramophone.”

“Do you?” says Obi-wan, with a huff.

“Nope,” says Darcy. “I thought they were like, extinct or something!”

“That only applies to animals,” says Obi-wan, moving away to the counter to start working on her latte. “They aren’t common anymore, certainly, but in the right circles they’re highly prized.”

“You mean in the hipster circles,” says Darcy.

“Not exclusively,” says Obi-wan.

“Says the hipster with his own café that sells _kale shakes_ ,” says Darcy. “I mean, it’s a step up from desert hell planet, though, so I’ll give you points for that.”

Obi-wan’s sure anything would be a step up from Tatooine, home of the Hutts and land of the twin suns and incredible heat. Out loud he says, “I wasn’t aware there was a competition.”

“It’s the Worst Planet competition,” says Darcy. “So far Tatooine is beating out everyone else.” She pauses, then adds, “I should tell Doc. He’d be so proud.”

“How is he, anyway?” says Obi-wan.

“Dude, can’t you use the Force to check?” says Darcy. “Or, you know, you could just ask him. I mean, he’ll come back over to London in a few weeks.”

“The Force does not work that way,” says Obi-wan, depositing her cup of coffee in front of her with a sniff. “And we’re both so busy these days that I’m lucky if we manage to even greet each other in passing.” He can’t really begrudge Anakin his success, though--New Mexico, New York, and Greenwich have proved, beyond a doubt, that not only was there life out in the cosmos, there was a way to reach out to it too, and Anakin had been at the center of two of those incidents.

At least, it’s proved the theory of extraterrestrial life to the rest of the world. Obi-wan’s already known it to be true since he got here.

Darcy’s nose wrinkles, but she doesn’t try to pick up the subject and needle him more. Obi-wan’s grateful for that much, at least.

He sits down across from her and says, “So--how are you enjoying London so far?”

\--

(“ _What do you do, with a BA in English--_ ”

John laughs, slings an arm around Helen’s shoulders. It’s been a long, long week, and maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the company, but for the first time in months he feels _giddy_ , happy and warm and comfortable in his own skin.

Granted, that’s probably because it’s spring break and he’s tipsy, but still.

Helen laughs as well, shoves playfully at his chest. “Get up there,” she says.

“Nah, Gavin’s murdering Avenue Q just fine without me,” says John, taking a sip. The whiskey’s burn goes down easier, now that he’s properly tipsy, and he finds himself looking around the bar.

Helen squints up at him, huffs out a breath. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, no, what?” says John, looking down at her.

“You’ve got that look again,” says Helen. “The one says _I’m single and I feel like mingling_.” Her words slur together, _’m’single an’feel like mingling_ , and John presses a sloppy kiss aimed at her hairline, missing and kissing the bridge of her nose instead. “John!”

“Sorry, sorry,” says John, extricating himself when he sees a man at the bar, nursing a drink. “Gotta go.”

“Don’t use the angel line on him!” Helen shouts after him, and she and their friends laugh uproariously. John grins, manages to make his way over to the bar’s counter and slides smoothly into the seat beside the man.

And the man looks _good_ , is the thing. Even in the dim light of the bar, his eyes are a bright blue, almost grey, and as his head tilts up from his drink, John’s pretty sure the way he’s positioned makes him look almost like an angel, the lightbulb’s glow creating a halo around his hair.

“Hey,” says John, then, “what’s a guy like you doing at a place like this?”

“Waiting on a friend,” says the man after one, two, three heartbeats. He smiles up at John, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m afraid he’s not going to show, though.”

“Sounds like a terrible friend to me,” says John, propping his cheek up on his gloved hand. “Leaving you all alone here to mope. I know a better place than this, I could take you there.”

“Really,” says the man, with a disbelieving huff.

“Fit for a king,” John insists. “And with hair like that I’m sure you’re king of _something_.” The moment the line’s out of his mouth he winces, ducks his head. “God, no, that was bad.”

“You’re very bad at this flirting thing,” says the man, bumping his shoulder.

“I’m much better sober,” John agrees. “I was going to ask you if you’d just fallen from heaven, but my friends said not to use that line, so.” He shrugs. “Had to come up with another one.”

“I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark and say,” says the man, jabbing his thumb at the raucous group of drunk college students that makes up John’s circle of friends, “those are your friends.”

“The ones murdering Sondheim and Webber at the moment, yeah,” says John, shaking his head. “I promise we usually sing better than this.”

“And you sing?” says the man.

“Only in the shower where no one but me and Helen can criticize my voice,” says John. “What about you?”

“A little bit,” the man admits. “All the songs I know are a bit old, though. And rather inappropriate for this setting.”

“It’s a bar, everything’s appropriate if you’re drunk enough,” John says, with a grin. “Like, say, _stripping on a table, I can see your flab from over here, Gavin_ \--”

“You’re just jealous you’re never gonna look like this, Foster!” calls Gavin from the stage. Somehow he’s managed to whip his shirt off, which isn’t all that weird, considering he’s singing Avenue Q.

John huffs out a laugh, turns back to the redhead. “Come on,” he says, encouragingly, “you can’t do any worse than Gavin. You don’t even have to strip.”

“I’m not going up on stage,” says the man, gently firm.

“I’m not asking you to,” says John. “Just a few lines, for me?”

For a second the man’s smile slips, and he looks so horribly grief-stricken that John almost backtracks. But he smiles again, as if that flash of grief never happened, and he says, “I suppose, since it’s just you, I could try.”

John closes his eyes, and over the din of his friends’ laughter, the continuous screech of Gavin’s voice, the ambient noise of the bar, he focuses on the man’s voice, clings to it like a lifeline.

“ _Of all the money, that e’er I had, I spent it in good company…_ ”)

\--

_Hey, hey, you, you, I don’t like your girlfriend--_

In retrospect, Obi-wan supposes leaving his phone anywhere Anakin’s intern could get to it was a bad idea. An especially terrible idea, in fact, in the light of the early morning beginning to dawn.

He sighs into his pillow, then fumbles around for his phone, swipes his thumb across the screen without looking before he lifts his head and blinks blearily at the caller ID.

A moment later, he presses speaker.

“--reunion?” Anakin’s saying. “Obi-wan? Hey, Obi-wan, you awake? Time zones are a bastard to deal with.”

“I’m awake,” Obi-wan says, rubbing at his eyes. “What’s this about a reunion?”

“I might have bragged to a few of my friends that I knew a guy who brewed great tea,” says Anakin. “They might have asked me to ask you to come serve them at the--I think it’s the ten-year anniversary?” There’s a crash, then Anakin’s muffled curse, then a clatter as if Anakin’s tossed the phone aside onto the nearest table.

“What happened there?” says Obi-wan, a little amused, once he hears Anakin’s breathless cursing again.

“Kriffing-- _of course_ you heard,” says Anakin. “Sorry. My friend Haller’s grad assistant got passed on to me while Haller’s off duty, and between you and me, the guy’s not as efficient as Darcy or Ahsoka. Or _competent_.” He heaves a tired sigh, and Obi-wan imagines him lounging on a couch, eyeing this Haller fellow’s poor intern with no small amount of judgment. Probably while drinking a wineglass full of Coke. “So, uh. Come with me to the reunion?”

Obi-wan hums. “I don’t know,” he starts.

“It’ll be fun,” says Anakin.

“What about Thor?” says Obi-wan, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Yeah, he’s coming too,” says Anakin, dismissively, “but last I checked he didn’t have his own café. Come on, Obi-wan, it’ll be great, you can meet my Modern Physics prof. You’d get along great with her, I think.”

“I do have a business to run,” says Obi-wan, rummaging through his drawers for his laptop. “I can’t simply up and leave it in the cook’s hands.”

“Imagine how many people would come to your business, though,” Anakin wheedles. “I guarantee you, some of these people are flying in from London and they’re going to _love_ whatever you make for them.”

“That’s if they find the café,” says Obi-wan.

“Broke college students find your café all the time,” Anakin argues. “Come on, Obi-wan, please? I’ll show you all the tourist attractions around New York, promise.”

“How tempting,” says Obi-wan, looking up flights from London to New York.

“Come on,” says Anakin, “just help me show off in front of my old classmates for a night? I’ll take you to see a play. Or, wait, no, theatre’s expensive, but I have some bootlegs we can watch. How do you feel about _Wicked_?”

“I’ve read Maguire’s book, I’ll pass,” says Obi-wan.

“There’s a _book_?” says Anakin. “And it’s not Baum?”

“How do you know about Baum and not Maguire?” says Obi-wan, checking out ticket prices in New York. He’s got enough money thanks to Fury and SHIELD and running his café that he could comfortably buy two tickets at face value, instead of resorting to scalpers.

“I took a literature class,” is Anakin’s response. “We talked about the Oz books once. I wrote a paper about the duality of the witches in a week or so, it was pretty fun defending it in class.”

And it’s so mundane an admission that Obi-wan finds himself staring at the home page for a moment. Anakin had never been one for writing his reports back in the Clone Wars, had written the bare minimum needed and then no more and put it out of his mind.

And now here he is, talking about defending something he’d worked on for a week, about witches and wizards and literature classes. It’s one more reminder of his utterly mundane life, before New Mexico.

Obi-wan thinks of bright eyes and barlights, a smile like stars. _Just a few lines, for me?_

Anakin had been happy.

“Obi-wan?” Anakin asks. “Something up?”

“Nothing’s up,” says Obi-wan. “So how much are the tickets?”

“This is the third best day of my life,” says Anakin, gleeful.

“Third best?” says Obi-wan.

“My wedding’s in second and the news about the twins is in first,” Anakin explains, and--of course it is. Obi-wan is hardly even surprised anymore. “Hey, if you want, I know a way you can save on airfare.”

“Do _not_ send Thor over,” says Obi-wan.

\--

He sends Thor over.

“Ben!” Thor exclaims as he enters, voice booming around the café. Some of the hipsters look up and faint dead away, at the sight of him. Understandable, considering how obviously Thor stands out--not just because of his armor, but because of the sheer presence he casts. “I must speak with you!”

Ventress, leaning on the counter, says, “Well, this is awkward. Is that Skywalker’s godly lover?”

“Ex,” says Obi-wan, with a sigh, putting his rag aside.

“He broke up with that?” says Ventress, raising an eyebrow. “That accident must’ve knocked what little sense he had out of his head.”

“You, I haven’t met,” says Thor, walking up to the counter and nodding to Ventress with a gentle smile. “I am Thor, of Asgard, though I suspect you knew that already. And you are?”

“Ventress, formerly of Dathomir,” says Ventress, eyeing Thor suspiciously as she holds her hand out to Obi-wan, for him to put her change in. “Now of anywhere I like.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” says Thor, earnestly. He takes her hand, bows and presses a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles.

Ventress actually looks a little _charmed_. Obi-wan’s even more impressed, it takes a lot to get Ventress to like anyone, and she barely likes _him_. “Well, well, what have we here?” she says. “You’ve got much better manners than most.”

“My mother taught me well,” says Thor, modestly, letting go of her hand. “But I must speak to Ben alone. This is a matter between the both of us.”

“Ah,” says Ventress, gaze darting between the both of them. Obi-wan swears she’s practically mourning the lost opportunity to watch a possible fight. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Come on,” says Obi-wan, with a sigh, “I’ve got a back room we can use.”

\--

The back room is really a set of rooms to one side of the café, where Obi-wan lives. There isn’t much to it, but on most days, it’s a comfortable enough space, with a yoga mat in the center of the room for his meditations and some furniture, and stacks of books here and there.

Today is not most days.

Thor is a large, looming man. His presence practically fills entire rooms, and looking at him through the Force is like stepping out of the house into rain under curiously clear skies. He looks out of place in Obi-wan’s apartment, hanging his hammer on Obi-wan’s coat rack.

There’s an audible creak from the rack, and it sways a little, but it stays upright.

“Anakin sent you, didn’t he?” says Obi-wan, resigned. “I can pay for my own plane ticket.”

“Oh, he didn’t,” says Thor, cheerfully, sitting down on the couch. “He did ask me if it was possible to fly you across the ocean upon my back, but I told him no.” He shrugs. “Midgardians are not as durable as we Asgardians are. He seemed disappointed to learn as much.”

“Technically I’m not of Midgard,” says Obi-wan. “Do you want anything, then? You did fly all the way across the Atlantic.”

“Semantics,” says Thor. “And I wanted to speak with you. Oh--do you have any Coke? Ahsoka swears by them.”

“No, I don’t,” says Obi-wan, deeply offended. “And what was so important that you flew across an ocean?”

Thor lets out a breath, and suddenly all the cheer seems to leech from his shoulders. “You and Anakin were shield-brothers before you were enemies, were you not?” he asks.

Obi-wan blinks at him. “Yes,” he says. There’s no use in denying that.

Thor sighs, looks down at his hands. “What do you know of my brother Loki?” he asks.

Oh. “What everyone else knows,” says Obi-wan. “He came here, killed multiple people, attempted to declare war but was stopped by a grand total of six people.” Which is pitiful, really, from where Obi-wan’s standing. If six people are enough to turn back your invasion, you maybe didn’t plan it well enough, in his opinion. “Besides that, not much else.”

“Anakin has not told you?”

Obi-wan shrugs, spreads his arms. “We’ve only just begun to mitigate the damage we did to each other,” he says. “We’re still in the small talk phase, so, no, he hasn’t told me about Loki yet. I imagine that’s a sensitive topic.”

“It is,” says Thor, looking up. “When Loki came to Midgard, he enthralled Dr. Selvig in order to have a scientist on hand who knew the secrets of the Tesseract. And I’m told that one of the casualties of the Battle of New York was Anakin’s favorite diner.”

“That one I know about,” says Obi-wan. “The diner, I mean.” He sits down on the edge of the mat, leans back on his hands. “What about Loki, then?”

“How did you deal with it?” says Thor, soft and sad and grieving. It occurs to Obi-wan, suddenly, that Thor and Loki had known each other for _centuries_ , perhaps more than that. The betrayal must’ve felt like the ground had been yanked out from under him.

(It must’ve felt like his heart breaking, with every step he took away from the man who had once been his closest friend.)

Obi-wan breathes out.

“How did you grieve?” Thor continues. “How _do_ you grieve? For I have mourned my brother already, and I thought that I was done, I thought that there was nothing left of him until--” He stops, lets out a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t done,” he says, voice raw.

Obi-wan looks down at his calloused hands. He thinks of Anakin, grinning at him, _just a few lines, for me_.

“I’m not certain I’m the best person to ask,” he tries. “Why not Ahsoka? Or Anakin?”

“Yes, but the only other person I would’ve come to is--not likely to hear me, at the moment,” says Thor, looking down again. “Ahsoka is with Darcy, and I’d rather not interrupt their revelry. As for Anakin, I don’t need someone to tell me not to mourn for my brother, for what he could’ve been and what was left inside the murderer he became. I cannot _not_ mourn. I just--”

“You need someone who knew what it was like,” says Obi-wan. “To mourn, for someone who was lost to you long before death.”

Thor nods. “And the death as well,” he adds. “He died to save me. And I--”

_I could not save him,_ he doesn’t say.

Obi-wan hears it anyway. He thinks of Anakin kneeling to a Sith lord, of the fallen Jedi who had met Obi-wan on Mustafar, too far gone to save. He thinks of bright blue eyes and a smile, _to mem’ry now I can’t recall_ \--

“I know that I am imposing on you,” says Thor. “If you’d rather not have me here, I can go.”

“You can stay,” says Obi-wan. “It’s a slow day anyway, and if I’m badly needed there’s a bell just outside the customers can ring.” He gets to his feet, and says, “Do you like tea?”

“As it so happens, I do like tea,” says Thor. “Especially if they’re flavored with mead.”

“No mead here, I’m afraid,” says Obi-wan, rummaging through his cupboards, “but I do have citrus vodka left over from the last time Ventress dropped by. How do you feel about that and lemon tea?”

“Very excited,” says Thor, wryly.

Obi-wan laughs, and in a short time--with some help from the Force--he’s got two cups of tea on the counter, one cut with a generous amount of lemon vodka. He Force-lifts his own cup and carries Thor’s over to him.

Thor raises an eyebrow and says, “Now I see where he gets it.”

“Gets what?” says Obi-wan, innocently.

“Anakin does much the same thing,” says Thor, taking the cup. “I walked in on him once buttering his toast with the Force while making pancake batter.”

“Seems rather frivolous to me,” says Obi-wan, plucking his cup of tea out of the air.

“ _Really,_ ” says Thor, flatly.

Obi-wan smiles beatifically at him, and takes a sip.

Thor shakes his head, but drinks as well, a few quick sips. “Has Sif dropped by to try and fight you yet?” he asks. “She’s been hounding Anakin about it for weeks.”

“She hasn’t,” says Obi-wan, “and she’ll have to find me first.”

“That should be fun,” says Thor, with a little grin. It fades away quickly, and he looks back down at his cup of tea. “On Asgard,” he says, “we tell tales, to mourn. We sing of their great deeds, of the battles they won, the monsters they slew, the lives they lived.” He breathes out, and says, “But if I were to speak, of the good things my brother did, it would fall on deaf ears, for all the wrongs he has done have overshadowed the good man he used to be.”

“I’d listen,” says Obi-wan. “And--I do have some stories about Anakin, before everything fell apart. Would you agree to a trade?”

Thor smiles--or rather, the corners of his mouth pull up in a sad whisper of a smile. “I would,” he says.

\--

They talk well into the night.

\--

Anakin’s waiting for him, when he gets off the plane and steps out into the arrival area at the airport. It’s not hard to pick him and his sign out from the crowd, what with the glitter liberally sprinkled all over it.

“Really,” says Obi-wan, walking up and pulling his suitcase behind him. “ _Glitter._ ”

“Carrie Fisher swears by it,” says Anakin, lowering the sign and tucking his metal hand into his pocket. He looks better now, hair swept back into a ponytail, eyes a bright blue.

“I didn’t think you knew Carrie Fisher,” says Obi-wan, following in his footsteps as he turns to lead him out. “In fact, I thought you didn’t want to watch the movies.”

“I still don’t,” says Anakin. “But she was in _When Harry Met Sally_ , and I liked her there.” He steps lightly around a woman on her phone and says, “So how was the flight?”

“Slightly better than expected,” says Obi-wan. “But the in-flight movie was terrible. _Captain America’s Last Ride_ , really?”

“You shush, it’s a classic,” says Anakin.

“The plot holes are so big you could drive a _Republic cruiser_ through them,” Obi-wan says.

“A _classic_ ,” Anakin argues.

Obi-wan doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because he’s a bit too focused on not bumping into a sudden flood of people coming past. Of course Anakin’s taste in movies hasn’t improved. If anything, he’s sure it’s deteriorated.

They’re out of the airport and in the parking lot with very little incident, Anakin practically bouncing in his stride as they get to his bright yellow car. It’s cheap, Obi-wan can tell that much just looking at the fading paint job. When he clambers inside, the upholstery’s so old that the stuffing’s leaking through the seams.

Oh, this is going to be a fun ride. He looks at the backseat, sees Anakin stuffing the sign in the trunk through the window before he moves around to clamber into the driver’s seat.

“So where to?” says Obi-wan.

Anakin pets the steering wheel like it’s his old astromech droid. “I’m house-sitting for an old friend of mine, currently,” he says, as he peels away from the parking spot, the casual mention of his old friend like a twist of a long-buried knife in Obi-wan’s heart, “he lives in Floral Park, so it’s about twenty minutes from JFK to there. Hopefully.”

“You’re being uncharacteristically optimistic about our chances of getting there in under an hour,” says Obi-wan.

“A man’s gotta dream,” says Anakin, driving them right into traffic.

Obi-wan waits a minute, then he turns to look at Anakin and says, “And what a lovely dream it is.”

“Oh, shut up,” Anakin mutters, eyeing a blue car with suspicion when it moves just slightly out of its place near him. “If this asshole tries to cut in--”

“You are not going to ram him,” says Obi-wan.

“I wasn’t!” Anakin says, defensively. “I was just going to tell him to not do that.”

“In a polite and dignified manner befitting of an astrophysicist with a close connection to a prince, I’m sure,” says Obi-wan, and has the singular enjoyment of watching Anakin’s cheeks turn bright red before he ducks his head. “With no cursing whatsoever and no insinuations about mothers.”

Anakin opens his mouth to protest, then sighs and closes it. “Every time,” he mutters.

\--

They take an hour to get there.

For the sake of not pushing Anakin too far, Obi-wan spares him a lecture and simply comments, “Well, I suppose it’s worth the wait,” when they get to the house.

“Quit being sarcastic,” Anakin mutters, leaning on the roof of the car. “Anyway, welcome to New York.”

“I’ve been here before,” says Obi-wan.

Anakin’s lips twist into a small frown, as if remembering the bar. “Welcome back to New York, then,” he says. “Here, come on, lemme get that.”

Obi-wan sighs, and says, “I can carry my own suitcases.”

“Yeah, but it’d be so much easier, right,” says Anakin, popping the trunk, “if you had some help?” He looks at Obi-wan once more, gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Anyway, you flew out here to help me look good for the reunion, I might as well.”

“How thoughtful of you,” says Obi-wan. “I must admit, I half-expected to see Thor around.”

“We broke up,” says Anakin, looking away as he hauls out a suitcase. “And he does have eight other worlds to look after besides this one.” He pauses, looks up at the clear sky, and smiles sadly. “I hope he’s doing fine,” he says, a little louder than before.

“He can’t hear you, he’s on another world,” says Obi-wan.

“Thor can’t,” says Anakin, cheerfully, “but I met a guy who could. Heimdall says hi, by the way.”

Obi-wan stares at him. “Did you tell the _Guardian of the Rainbow Bridge_ about me?”

“I told Thor and Sif about you,” says Anakin, pulling Obi-wan’s suitcase with him up the hedge-lined path to the door. Obi-wan notes that some of them are slightly overgrown, as if both Anakin and the home’s owner haven’t been paying as much attention to it as they should. “It’s not my fault if they spread the stories around. They _like_ stories on Asgard.”

“Please tell me you didn’t tell them about Cato Nemoidia,” says Obi-wan, dread dropping into his stomach as he hurries to keep up with Anakin’s stride.

“I didn’t tell them about Cato Nemoidia, you can relax,” says Anakin.

“Oh, good,” sighs Obi-wan.

“But I did tell them about Ord Mantell,” Anakin adds, and Obi-wan is frankly disappointed that Anakin’s reflexes are as sharp as ever, because he manages to duck the pebble Obi-wan Force-flicks at him. “Sif asked! What was I supposed to do, turn her down? She was offering _mead_.”

“You were supposed to never bring that up,” says Obi-wan. “Now I’ll never be able to talk about Ord Mantell without your friend laughing at me.”

“You’ll live,” says Anakin. “Ahsoka told her about Idgen. Now I can’t talk about ice cream without Sif making jokes about _sentient_ ice cream.”

“Well, you do have to admit,” says Obi-wan, “it was funny.”

“To _you_ ,” Anakin grumbles, hauling the suitcase up the porch steps.

“Not just to me,” says Obi-wan. “Here, let me, it’s my suitcase anyway.”

\--

“So,” says Obi-wan, rummaging through Anakin’s friend’s cupboard, “a college reunion?”

“Also known as a pissing contest over who’s gotten everything they ever dreamed about after graduation,” says Anakin, opening the fridge and digging out a can of Coke. The kitchen is a small and cozy affair, and stocked in so many knives that Obi-wan feels a little nervous just looking at the stand. “I can’t blame Haller for taking off just as it’s coming, honestly. He’s never really been the type for big social gatherings.”

“And you?” says Obi-wan.

Anakin shrugs, cracks open the can. “Maybe two years ago I’d be in the thick of it,” he says, quiet. “Or at least I’d be happy about being there, even if I lost the contest.”

Two years ago Anakin hadn’t had any memory of being Darth Vader. Obi-wan’s heart cracks just a little, for the peace that’s been stolen away from his friend. It’s a strange feeling, to mourn a man who never really existed, save for on paper.

Save, perhaps, for more than a decade.

“And now?” he asks.

Anakin shrugs. “I promised I’d be there,” he says, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I even cleared out a spot in my schedule for this. I just--” He sighs, shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair. “They don’t know,” he says, lowly, bowing his head, “and I can’t tell them.”

And Obi-wan can’t even reassure him that they’ll know better than to turn away from him, because they both know--turning away is maybe the smartest thing anyone could do. Anakin has done many things that most people would find unforgivable, and it would be sensible to walk away from him.

It says something about the depth of Obi-wan’s attachment that he’s here, in the same room as Anakin, instead.

He wonders if that’s why Anakin asked him to come, this time, underneath the thin veneer of business.

“Tell me about them,” he says, instead. “Your friends from your days at such a distinguished institute.”

“You saw them,” Anakin points out, clearly grateful at least for the change in topic, from how he looks back up at Obi-wan.

“Once, and while they were drunk,” says Obi-wan.

Anakin laughs, and says, “All right, all right.” He pushes away from the table, opens the freezer and takes out a box of ice cream, saying, “Have you ever heard of Helen Cho?”

“She was on the BBC last week demonstrating the prototype for her Cradle,” says Obi-wan. He’d been impressed at the time not only by her invention, but by how adroitly she had answered the questions thrown her way. “Why?”

“We were roommates in college,” says Anakin, shutting the freezer door and opening one of the drawers. “We actually used to proofread each others’ papers, and I think one time I passed out in her bed after finals. She’s a good person, you’d like her.”

“You did what,” says Obi-wan.

“We did nothing, her type leans more towards women anyway,” says Anakin, “but it was just after my final under maybe the most demanding professor I had…”

\--

It’s four in the morning when something crashes downstairs.

Obi-wan is up and out of bed almost instantly, years of war having instilled a habit of sleeping lightly. He summons his lightsaber to his hand from the bedside drawer, holds it ready but unignited as he moves downstairs.

In his head, he runs all the worst-case scenarios through his head: a burglar, perhaps, come to rob the place under the impression that its usual occupants were away, or someone drunk or high in the throes of a vivid hallucination. Maybe even some teenager who broke in on a dare, half-drunk and giggling. Maybe--

“How the _fuck_ are you _alive_?” Anakin’s voice rings out, as Obi-wan is halfway to the kitchen.

Right. He rearranges his mental list of priorities, and almost topples a vase over with how fast he gets to the kitchen, lightsaber igniting.

He stares when he gets there.

“Close your mouths, you two,” says Mace Windu, Nick Fury, whatever, _he’s supposed to be dead._ How is he sitting at the head of the kitchen table like nothing happened and Anakin’s not pointing a knife at him? “You don’t want flies getting in your mouth.”

“ _You’re dead!_ ” Anakin yells.

“And put that knife away before you hit Kenobi,” says Fury, unruffled.

Anakin puts the knife down. Then he whirls on Obi-wan and snaps, “Did you know about this?!”

“I would’ve _liked_ to know,” says Obi-wan, “since, after all, I thought he was dead like _everyone else_.” He turns his lightsaber off, the room dimming once more without that bright blue light, and says, “What the fuck, Mace?”

“Hope you don’t mind that I stopped by,” says Fury. “I’ve been busy.”

“It was _all over the news_ ,” says Anakin, who apparently has not budged from the revelation of Fury not being dead. Obi-wan can’t blame him, he can’t seem to get his mind unstuck from that either. “Also, you giant dick, have you been having me _watched_ for my entire career?”

“And then some,” says Fury, with a shrug. “I had to be sure Vader wouldn’t come back out.” He inclines his head and says, “Welcome back, Skywalker. Yes, I’m officially dead. Easier to move that way, nobody expects dead men to move at all.”

“Depa,” says Obi-wan, rallying himself together, “sent me your autopsy report. You were shot in the chest and bled out too much, as I recall.” He stares at him, this man who was once his colleague and friend, and wonders how many scars Order 66 left on everyone in this kitchen. “You look very spry for a dead man,” he says, evenly.

“And you look like you need to sleep,” Fury shoots back. “That goes for you too, Skywalker.”

“Thanks for the concern, asshole,” says Anakin. “Twelve years. Twelve _fucking_ years and a move to goddamn _Norway_. You bantha-fucking pile of--”

“ _Anakin_ ,” says Obi-wan, before Anakin can lapse into Huttese curses.

“I’ve heard much worse from subordinates,” says Fury, with a shrug. “Besides, it just so happens that I have been wanting to say some choice words to you too.” He inhales, and says, “You utter fucking _shitheel_.”

Anakin blinks at him. “That’s it?” he says.

“Kenobi’s right here and would highly object,” says Fury.

“Yes, and I can also speak for myself, thank you both very much,” says Obi-wan, clipping his lightsaber to his belt and folding his arms. “All right. What happened?”

“The Winter Soldier happened,” says Fury. “Damn good shot, considering I wasn’t even in sight.” He leans back in his chair, and if it wasn’t for the spike of sudden pain in the Force Obi-wan’s pretty sure he never would’ve seen that little stain of blood under Fury’s jacket. “Either of you boys have a medical kit?”

And the tableau unfreezes then and there--Obi-wan’s at Fury’s side in a split second, cursing as he gets the jacket off of him, and Anakin scrambles upstairs, voice fading.

“Why couldn’t you have gone to anyone else?” Obi-wan asks.

“Didn’t know who else to trust who was in town,” says Fury.

“Yes, because faking your death is a sign that you trust someone,” says Obi-wan, gently pulling Fury’s shirt up to see the wound. “And I speak from experience,” he adds, thinking of how Anakin had pulled away from him, after the Hardeen affair.

Fury doesn’t say anything. “Been a long time since trust was something I could afford,” he says, rueful and sad.

Obi-wan shakes his head. “All right, what happened?” he says.

“Cleared out a HYDRA base,” says Fury. “Someone had a serrated knife. It was not fun.”

“Serrated knives are generally not fun,” says Obi-wan, as Anakin stalks back into a kitchen and slams the medical kit down on the table. “Do we have any bandages? Needle and thread?”

“We _don’t_ have anything for field surgery, because generally _there’s no need_ ,” Anakin says, somewhat testy. “I have band-aids and gauze.”

“The gauze will do,” says Fury. “I’ll stitch it up once I’m back at my safehouse.”

“You’re still a dick,” Anakin informs him. “A dick who breaks into people’s homes at four in the morning. I have to teach a class in four hours, _dammit_ , and there’s not enough coffee in this house for my own needs.”

“There are four bags of coffee heavier than my suitcase in the cupboard,” says Obi-wan, baffled. “ _Four_.”

“That’s still not enough,” says Anakin, annoyed.

“How are you still alive?” Obi-wan asks.

“Sheer force of will and a healthy fear of Darcy coming after me for leaving her without the recommendations I promised,” says Anakin, which is--fair, Darcy is a driven woman, and probably _would_ come after Anakin for not holding up his end of the deal.

“And now I remember why I never wanted to be stuck in the same room as the two of you, alone,” says Fury, looking up at the ceiling. “Can we save the bickering for when I’m not bleeding on a chair?”

\--

They get him patched up. Or, well, Obi-wan patches Fury up as best as he can, while Anakin sits on the counter, away from the two of them.

That’s probably the best place for him to be at the moment. Obi-wan’s heard of what happened in the Chancellor’s office, and right now he’s not too sure Anakin and Fury aren’t going to start trying to rip each other apart over it, verbally if not physically.

It’s as he’s finishing up that Anakin says, “You had me watched for twelve years.”

“If you’re looking for an apology, you’re not going to find it,” says Fury, evenly. “I did what was necessary to keep this world safe.”

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” Anakin says, hopping off the countertop. “I didn’t even know who I was! I didn’t know anything about the Force, the Empire, the Sith, the Jedi--I was just a guy going through college! What could I have done that scared you so much?”

“You didn’t know,” says Fury, calmly, “but there was a chance you would learn.” He gestures to the door, the world outside. “You’re a cultural phenomenon, Skywalker, haven’t you noticed?”

“It isn’t me,” Anakin protests, weakly.

“If not you,” says Fury, “then whose helmet is it on the merchandise? Whose suit is a Halloween costume little kids dress up in? Whose name is the shorthand term for evil and darkness?”

Anakin’s lips press into a thin line, and he says, “That _was_ me, fine. But not anymore. I haven’t been Vader in a while.”

“But the world knows you as Vader,” says Fury. “You think I made the decision lightly? You think I just looked at some poor amnesiac bastard and decided to have him watched out of suspicion?”

“You had me spy on a friend off a hunch!”

“ _Justified_ suspicion, as we both know,” Fury says. “You proved yourself a dangerous threat back in our galaxy. I didn’t want a reprise here.” He folds his arms. “I’m not sorry for doing what I had to do, Skywalker.”

“Well,” says Anakin, voice heavy with bitterness, “at least you’re being honest with yourself now, huh.”

“Could say the same for you,” says Fury.

“Are the both of you quite finished lambasting each other, now?” says Obi-wan, exhausted beyond all belief, not just by the conversation, but by Fury being here at all in the first place. “Because I would like to sleep for the rest of the night now. What little is left of it, anyway.”

“That, I’m sorry for,” says Fury.

“Not sorry enough, clearly,” Obi-wan says, with no real heat. “I did warn you this would happen.”

“ _Warn_ \--” Anakin starts.

He shoots Anakin a Look.

Anakin, for once, shuts his mouth, but his jaw sets mulishly.

Obi-wan looks at Fury once more. “How did you know to find us here, anyway?” he asks. “Neither of us actually live here.”

“I keep an ear to the ground,” says Fury, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eye.

“And how’s that worked out for you?” says Anakin, bitterly.

Obi-wan lets out a long sigh, taking the time to apply a butterfly bandage over a minor cut. “Anakin,” he says, “ _get out of the kitchen._ You’re being too distracting.”

“ _Distracting_ ,” says Anakin, incredulous, but he goes.

\--

Fury leaves, after that. Obi-wan climbs tiredly up the stairs and collapses back into bed, closing his eyes.

The next thing he knows, there’s a sound like something crashing into the ground, and he falls off the bed swearing once more. Anakin’s still awake and downstairs, he must’ve heard that, he’ll most likely investigate and Obi-wan needs to go back him up--

He summons his lightsaber to his hand once more, and all but flies down the stairs to the backyard.

He blinks.

“Oh,” he says, as Thor lifts Anakin up in a hug, the two of them laughing and joking. “You’re early.”

“The marauders we fought in Alfheim surrendered far more easily once Sif publicly humiliated their leader in hand-to-hand combat,” says Thor, putting Anakin gently down.

“Thought you’d be sticking around for the feast,” says Anakin, lightly patting Thor’s bicep.

“I ended up leaving once the Queen of the Elves left with Fandral,” says Thor. “Let’s just say that I did not want to-- _discourage_ their enthusiasm.”

Obi-wan steps out into the backyard, eyes the circle around Thor and Anakin with some interest. These are Norse runes that have been burned into grass, and if he can just translate some of these then maybe, just maybe--

“I have some notes on the runes in my bag,” says Anakin, snapping Obi-wan out of his thoughts as Thor walks towards the house. “They’re a little bit different now, though, maybe because the first time I saw them the Bifrost hadn’t gotten broken.”

“Do you have a camera?” says Obi-wan.

“Upstairs in my bag,” says Anakin. “Be careful with it, it was _really_ expensive.”

“I have to say,” says Obi-wan, as Anakin bends down to poke at a blade of grass that’s been scorched by Thor’s entrance, “of all the careers I expected you to take up, a scientist was not one of them. As I recall, you _hated_ your classes.”

“I had a hard time with some of them, yeah,” Anakin says.

“You also took special delight,” Obi-wan goes on, “in downplaying any knowledge you had about any experiments I was conducting.”

“Because the face you made when you figured it out was hilarious,” Anakin replies. “Besides, your thing is xenobiology, and I never really got any more than a B in that area.” He stands back up, tucks his hands in his pockets as he looks down at the circle. “Physics, on the other hand--it went well with engineering, and at some point I started to get into it for its own sake.”

“You always did like seeing how things worked,” says Obi-wan. “I’ve lost count of just how many projects I’ve tripped over, in your teens.” And he remembers, with an awful clarity, the phantom-limb feeling of _missing_ those days, the projects strewn haphazardly around Anakin’s chambers.

“I’ve gotten better about it,” says Anakin, but the way his eyes slide away from Obi-wan and focus on the circle say otherwise.

That, and Ahsoka’s frequent complaints about tripping over something Anakin left lying around his apartment.

“That’s not what Ahsoka and Darcy say,” says Obi-wan.

“Who’re you going to believe?” says Anakin, with a scoff. “Me or them?”

“Considering your history leaving things out where people can trip over them,” says Obi-wan, “I’d say I believe your Padawan and your intern more than I believe you.”

Anakin rolls his eyes, and says, “A little faith in what I say, that’s all I ask.”

He walks inside the house, and Obi-wan stands outside by the scorched, rune-covered circle. He could be at home, is the thing--he could be in London, taking cash from hipsters and tired students and baking pastries, brewing coffee and tea and arguing with his cook over what to take off or tack onto the menu next week, next month, next season.

He’s here in New York, instead.

Because Anakin had asked.

\--

Obi-wan can’t really _see_ the appeal in New York. Navigating around it seems to be a nightmare, and he’s certain that if the Jedi Order still existed, one of the trials for Knighthood would be sending the poor Padawan into the bowels of the New York subway system.

Anakin laughs at him when he says this, the three of them waiting for a train. “London’s _worse_ ,” he tells him.

“London,” says Obi-wan, stiffly, “has an efficient public transportation system.”

“Easy for you to say when you barely ever use it,” Anakin retorts.

“Neither system is that efficient,” says Thor, idly turning a brochure over in his hands. “I had the dubious pleasure of trying out the trains in London, and it was overly crowded for my tastes.”

“See,” says Anakin, smug.

“Anakin, I hold you dear to my heart, you’re one of my closest mortal friends,” says Thor, cheerfully, “but you have to realize that New York is nearly as bad as London.”

“I have been _betrayed_ ,” says Anakin.

“I would’ve thought you’d be used to that by now,” Thor says, as the train pulls up, rumbling gradually to a stop. Obi-wan steps aside to allow the rush of people to pass through, catches whispers of _oh my god is that Thor_ in the crowds, bright flashes of light from someone’s phone or someone’s camera.

He steps inside first, takes a seat. Anakin stands, gloved fingers hooking around one of the handles hanging above as people rush inside to take their seats.

It occurs to Obi-wan, suddenly, that Anakin is almost indistinguishable from the crowd of New Yorkers in this train car. Certainly his argument with a real Avenger is drawing quite a few eyes, but that’s less to do with Anakin himself and more to do with who he’s arguing with. Anakin’s wearing a hat with the Mets logo on it, a hoodie with the Starfleet symbol emblazoned on the breast pocket, and baggy dark purple pants. He blends in with all the rest of them.

Granted, it’s easy enough to do that, there’s a dog sticking its head out of a woman’s bag barking happily about being on the train. Still--Anakin blends into this scene with an ease Obi-wan hadn’t seen out of him even when he’d settled into Temple life, even while arguing with Thor about transportation systems, of all things.

And then there’s Obi-wan himself, who has a map of New York’s subway system, which more than anything marks him out as _not from here_. He’s pretty sure he’s getting more weird looks from the people here than Thor and Anakin are.

A girl, beside him, nudges his side and says, “Welcome to New York.”

“Oh?” says Obi-wan.

She nods to Anakin, who’s gesturing wildly with his free hand now. Somehow the topic has wandered away from transportation systems to _Star Trek_ transporters and their similarities to the Bifrost.

“This happens _all the time_ ,” she says. “Yesterday I sat beside a guy who I saw last week on Broadway.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” says Obi-wan, with a sigh. “That it happens all the time, I mean.” It’s not a lie, per se, but stranger things have been happening more often since Obi-wan ran into Anakin again. It’s like Anakin’s a magnet for trouble.

“First week?” says the girl, sympathetic.

“Not really, I’ve been here before,” says Obi-wan.

“Not that long, if you’re staring at that guy and Thor,” says the girl. “You get used to it after a while.” Her part in helping him done, she plugs her earbuds back in and scrolls through her music library, and Obi-wan catches sight of the album cover: the soundtrack to _A New Hope_.

“--and Ben can back me up here,” Anakin says, cutting into Obi-wan’s thoughts. “Right, Ben?”

“Sorry, what?” says Obi-wan.

“Oh my god,” says the girl. “You _know_ each other?”

“Yes,” says Obi-wan, then he looks back to Anakin. “And you’ll have to say that again, I wasn’t paying attention--you seemed rather distracted.”

“I am rather distracting,” says Thor, with a grin. Anakin huffs out a breath and jabs him in the side with his elbow, getting a theatrically pained groan out of him.

“ _Star Trek_ transporters,” Anakin says. “I was telling Thor how they worked and he said--”

“They’re antiquated by Asgardian standards,” says Thor. “There _is_ a transporter that works pretty much the same way in one of our museums, I could take you there.”

“Asgard has literally _one_ way to transport someone halfway across the universe,” says Anakin, with a huff. “Don’t get me wrong, the Rainbow Bridge is fucking amazing and I want to go through it again, but it strikes me as inconvenient--what if I want to go to one of the other Nine Realms, huh? _Without_ running into your dad, the last time I did it was so awkward.” He shudders.

“I could help you avoid him,” says Thor, with a sympathetic wince, “I know his routines.”

“John,” says Obi-wan, with only the slightest hesitation on the false name, “I’ve never even seen _Star Trek_. And I mean that I’ve never seen _anything_ carrying the name.”

“Not even the new ones?” Anakin asks, voice carrying a note of surprise.

“I’m not exactly a big fan of Abrams’ work as a director,” says Obi-wan, “so, no, I haven’t had the inclination to watch those either.”

“You hipster,” says Anakin, but his mouth turns up into a soft, fond smile. “It’s still on Netflix, I think, and I just restarted my account. Could make a night of it.”

“I’ve heard much of this _Star Trek_ ,” says Thor, “but I’ve never watched it before. I would like to join you on your movie night.”

“ _Series_ night,” says Anakin, absently, “the movies were years later once the show became an actual phenomenon.”

“I’m not so sure,” Obi-wan begins.

“It’ll be fun,” says Anakin, cajoling, bright-eyed in a way that Obi-wan’s seen once before, in the dim bar light.

What else can he do but say yes?

\--

(“ _Good night and joy be with you all._ ”

“Damn,” says John, after one, two, three heartbeats have passed. Or an eternity. “You’re _good_.”

The man smiles at him, charmingly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something unbearably sad there, and John feels unreasonably angry at this guy’s friend who didn’t show up, because--why would you _do_ that to someone? Why would you do that to a _friend_?

Well, his fucking loss, John got a song out of it and he might get more. Probably.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” says the man, wryly.

“I’m serious, you are good!” says John. “Your friend’s an idiot, he missed out on this. Hey, do you have--gigs, or something? When can I see you again?”

And there, again, that flash of-- _something_ , some sort of bone-deep sorrow, before the man smiles again, soft in the barlight. “I don’t know,” he says. “Perhaps not for a very long time--I’m not going to stay in New York very long.” He breathes tiredly out, and says, “I leave first thing in the morning, in fact.”

Disappointment stabs through John’s heart like a knife, twisted just so to catch him off his guard. The _force_ of it--he’s been rejected before. There’s no reason why it should taste so bitter and feel so heavy on his tongue.

But it does, and it does, and it hurts.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re--Are you ever coming back?”

“I don’t know,” says the man, truthful.

“Does your friend know?” John asks.

The man hesitates a moment, then huffs out a sigh. “He does,” he says, and John gets the feeling he’s not telling him everything. “I’d--hoped to see him one last time, but. Well.” He shrugs. “Obviously he isn’t here.”

God, the poor bastard. “I’m sorry,” says John, sympathetic. “I’ve been there, with the shitty friends. You deserve better.”

The guy looks down at his drink again, breathes out sadly. “I miss him,” he says, quiet and raw, and John is just buzzed enough that he scoots his chair closer, drops a hand onto the space between the guy’s shoulder blades, reassuring and sympathetic. “I didn’t say that enough. We never said enough to each other, I suppose.”

There’s a story there, John thinks. He doesn’t ask.

“Sorry,” he says, quiet, instead.

The man smiles, brittle and sad. “Don’t be,” he says. “There’s nothing you can do.”)


End file.
